"Susie?" he said. "Why, of course she'll go. She can spell any thing."
Penelope was in bed and asleep when Susie returned from the donation. So long a road home as Vosh Stebbins had selected, had required time to travel over it; and Mrs. Farnham had vetoed Pen's proposal to sit up. When they all reached the breakfast-table in the morning, there was a great deal to talk about, but it was not long before the spelling-match came up.
"Oh, yes! Susie," said Pen, "I was going to tell you all about it. You know how to spell."
"They say we can be counted in among the Benton spellers," began Port; but there was a very serious look on Susie's face as she said to him,—
"I promised to go; but then, to think of being spelled down!"
"Why, Susie!" exclaimed Pen, "where did you hear of it?"
"Wasn't she at the donation?" asked Corry. "Didn't she ride home with Vosh Stebbins? Guess she's heard as much as anybody."
That was not a bad guess; but it soon appeared that Susie was as much in earnest over the results of the match as if she were a regular Benton-valley settler, instead of a mere visitor.
There was plenty of enthusiasm warming up, but Deacon Farnham seemed inclined to throw cold water on their hope of victory. He reminded them of the disastrous manner in which their district champions had already been defeated twice in succession.
"They've had a pretty good teacher, too, all winter," he said.
"So've we," said Corry; "and some of us have been putting in on our spelling more'n any thing else."
"That's good. Maybe they have too. I shouldn't wonder if Vosh was the best man you've got."
"Perhaps he is, and perhaps he isn't. Anyhow, we're going to have fair play this time. Their teacher isn't going to put out the words. There'll be a committee."
"That's better; but I'm afraid there won't be any prize brought back to this valley."
"It's a splendid prize!" exclaimed Pen,—"a great big dixinary."
"A dictionary, eh?"
"Yes," said Port; "and all the words spelled are to be given out from it."
"Any kind of words?"
"Not exactly. They must be just such words as people use, but they can be as long as they can find in the book."
"That won't hurt one side more'n it will the other," said Mrs. Farnham.
"Besides," said Pen, "more of us had to sit down on short words than long ones last year."
"Sit down?" asked Port.
"When they missed. You'll see when you get there," replied Corry. "It's awful to sit down on a mistake, with a whole meeting-house full of people looking at you and laughing."
"I should say it was."
There were four pairs of eyes in that one house, right away after breakfast, busy over the long rows of words in some spelling-books, and wondering if there were any there they had forgotten.
"I knew 'em all once," said Pen; "but they always look different when you're told 'em from the pulpit."
Over at the Stebbins homestead it was very much the same.
"Vosh," said his mother, "you was a dreadful long time at the barn."
"Well, mother, I staid till I'd spelled over every thing I could see. There's a good many names to things around a stable, and I spelled every one of 'em."
"Did you git 'em right, Vosh?"
"Guess I did."
"Would it do ye any good to have some other kind of spellin'-book, so you'd know more words?"
"That isn't the trouble, mother. It kind o' seems to me I know so many now, I can't remember half of 'em."
"Don't you git spelled down, now, Vosh. You won't, will ye, not with Susie Hudson and her brother a-lookin' on?"
Vosh's face put on a pretty sober expression as he muttered,—
"Guess I wouldn't like that."
The quiet winter days went by rapidly, and nothing came in them to interrupt in any way the steadily growing excitement over the great spelling-match.
All the arrangements for it were discussed over and over, until at last there was nothing more to be settled, and the set day came.
"Corry," said Port, when the sleigh drove to the door after supper, and they were hurrying on their overcoats, "seems to me I couldn't spell the shortest word I ever heard."
"If you get scared, you'll miss, sure's you live. Now, Port, we've just got to beat 'em."
Vosh and his cutter came up at that moment, and Mrs. Stebbins stepped out with the remark,—
"Deacon, you must make room for me. I'll swop with Susie. I want a talk with Judith and Sarah."
"Come, Susie," said Vosh. "I've been teaching my colt to spell."
There was no spare room in the big sleigh, for the farmhouse was left in charge of Ponto and the hired man.
Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith would not for any thing have missed hearing for themselves how Penelope and Coriolanus, and Susie and Porter, managed their long words at Cobbleville.
The red cutter was jingling away down the road before the black span was in motion, but somehow the two sets of passengers reached Cobbleville at about the same time. Eight miles of excellent sleighing does not last long before fast horses, and there was to be no such thing as being late.
"This is Cobbleville, Susie."
"It's not so much bigger than Benton. I don't believe we shall be beaten."
Something like that same suggestion cheered up Porter Hudson a little, as the deacon drove into the village; but the faces of Pen and Corry were very serious. There was a great trial before them, and they knew it,—a very great trial; for the tall-steepled, white-painted meeting-house in the middle of the village-green was hardly large enough to hold the crowd which was now pouring into it. The people had come from miles and miles all over the country; and those of the Cobbleville district were not only the more numerous, but seemed to be in a sort of exultation over a victory they were sure to win.
Deacon Farnham and his party managed to secure seats, and then they could look around them. Up on the platform, behind the pulpit-desk, were several very dignified gentlemen; and it did the Benton people good to see Elder Evans among them.
"He's come to see fair play," whispered Corry. "He won't let 'em put out any words they ought not to. Our chance is good."
That was encouraging; and at that very moment Elder Evans arose, and came forward to say to his own parishioners,—
"Some of our friends of the Cobbleville district have visitors among their young people, and the committee have consented to their taking part in the exercises."
"That fixes you and Susie all right," said Corry. "They can't object to you now."
Of course not; and the other final arrangements were speedily completed.
It was simple enough, or would have been if there had not been so many boys and girls who had not learned to stand still. The pews and the galleries, all but a few of the very forward pews, were given up to the general public.
The young folk from the Benton district were made to stand in the right-hand aisle, in a line that reached from the platform to the door. The other aisle belonged to Cobbleville, and its line of spellers came near being a double one.
"Two to our one, Port," said Corry; "but they'll thin out fast enough after we begin to spell."
There was no such thing as selecting places at first. The spelling began at the head of each line, alternating from one to the other. If the speller missed, he or she sat down wherever a seat could be found; but, as fast as words were spelled rightly, their happy victors were entitled to march to the heads of their lines, and so these were kept continually in motion. It was a proud thing to walk up the whole length of that meeting-house again and again, but it was not so proud to walk down the aisle hunting for a seat.
"I see how it is," said Port.
"Yes, it's great fun; and the last one up gets the dictionary."
It had been agreed that neither of the school-teachers should give out the words, and Elder Evans had modestly insisted that the pastor of the Cobbleville church should perform that duty.
"Won't he kill 'em off, though!" exclaimed Corry dolefully.
"Won't he play fair?"
"Why, yes, he'll be honest enough, I s'pose. But then he pronounces so! Wait till you hear him."
It was about time to begin, and the two boys and Pen found themselves quite a little distance down the line below Vosh and Susie.
"That's Elder Keyser. Oh, but isn't that a big dictionary! Hush! he's giving out a word."
Nobody needed to be told that, for it was given in a deep, very heavy voice, that was heard all over the house; but Port at once understood all about Elder Keyser's pronunciation.
The poor word was in a manner tumbled neck and heels out of the good man's mouth, with a sort of vocal kick to hurry it; and there were chances of serious injury to any syllable that should happen to stumble.
"Hypocrite!" shouted the elder to the curly-headed youngster at the head of the Cobbleville line.
"H-i-p"—
"That'll do. Give an example, and take your seat."
"Example," piped the boy, "puttin' a bad cent in the contribution-box."
"Next. Hypocrite."
The bright little girl at the head of the Benton aisle spelled it correctly, and Elder Evans raised his head high to smile on her.
The words were now given out with something like rapidity; and there was a constant stream of boys and girls walking up the aisles, and of others coming in the opposite directions. Every one of the latter seemed to be muttering,—
"I knew that word just as well!"
It was well that the front pews had been kept for unlucky spellers; but a seat in one of them was hardly looked upon as a prize.
"Port," said Corry gleefully, "they're thinning out fast. Think of a girl and two boys going down on such a word as 'rotation'!"
"Was that it? I thought he said 'rundition;' and I'd never seen it anywhere. He'll stumble me, sure's you live."
It was nearly their turn; and they one after the other felt a ton or so lighter when they were able to march to the front, instead of going to find seats.
Before that, however, Elder Keyser had thrown as hard a word as he could find at the head of Vosh Stebbins.
"Glad he had to say it slow," thought Vosh. "Guess he never tried it before. I can do it."
He was safe for the time, and the next Cobbleville boy went down on an easy word that then came across to Susie. She was conscious of a great deal of red in her face; but she spelled it clearly and correctly, and that sent her to the head, and next to Vosh again.
Twice more around, and the lines of young people in the aisles were not nearly so long as at first.
There had been, moreover, an almost continual roar of laughter over the examples of use given by the unfortunates.
Hardly were Port and Corry safe on the second round, before Elder Keyser blurted out to the next boy a word that sounded like—
"Ber'l."
"Bar'l, b-a-r-r"—
"That'll do. Example?"
"A bar'l of flour."
"Next. Ber'l."
"Ber'l, b-e-r-y-l."
"Down. Wrong. Example?"
"Beryl, a precious stone;" and the blushing damsel sorrowfully slipped aside into one of the front pews.
"Next. Ber'l."
"Berril, b-u-r-r-i-a-l."
"Wrong. Down. Example?"
"Berril, the berril of Surgeon Moore. I've heerd 'em sing it."
That boy sat down; but the young lady opposite spelled "burial" correctly, even if she pronounced it "burriel."
Once more round; and now Cobbleville could show barely twenty, and the Benton district hardly a baker's dozen.
"We're getting 'em," chuckled Corry. "They've lost some of their best spellers on old Keyser's pronunciation."
Alas for Corry! His turn came to him next upon a word the sound of which he was sure he caught.
"Stood, s-t-oo-d."
"Wrong. Down. Example?"
"Stewed, then!" roared Corry in undisguised vexation. "Example: 'The boy stewed on the burning deck.'"
"Next." The word sounded a little shorter this time; and the Cobbleville champion, whose turn it was, began,—
"Stud, s-t-u-d."
"Wrong. Down. Example?"
"One of my shirt-studs;" and down he went in a great roar of laughter, while Porter Hudson took the hint Corry's "example" had given him, and went to the head again on "stewed."
The rounds went by rapidly now; and each one sent down somebody in disgrace, while the excitement of the audience was visibly increasing.
"Susie," whispered Vosh, "we've got as many left standing as they have. Keyser's killing 'em off fast, though."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Don't spell a word till you know what it is, even if you have to ask him."
"I'd never dare do that."
"I would, then."
She was just above him, and in another moment her trial came. Vosh saw the puzzled, troubled expression on her face, and he came to the rescue.
"Elder Keyser," he sang out, "was that word 'mystery,' or 'mastery,' or 'monastery,' or was it 'mercy'? There's a difference in the spelling of 'em."
"Silence!"
"Silence, s-i-l-e-n-c-e," gravely spelled Susie, while the whole meeting-house rang with the applause that greeted her.
"Next. Spell 'misery,'" sharply exclaimed Elder Keyser; and a very pretty young lady of Cobbleville was so far disconcerted by the suddenness of it, that she actually began,—
"Misery, m-i-z"—
"Wrong. Down. Example?"
"Misery—ah! nothing to eat."
Susie was safe for that round; and in the next Elder Keyser was almost spitefully slow and correct in uttering the word he gave her.
During all that time, the older people from the farmhouse had been watching the course of events with no small degree of exultation over the success of their young representatives.
Corry had joined them, and about his first remark was,—
"Oh, but won't old Keyser be a popular man in Cobbleville after to-night! He'd better go in for a donation. Half the boys in the village'd like to snowball him on his way home."
The game grew closer. Barely six on a side, when Corry exclaimed,—
"That cross-eyed girl's down! She was the best speller they had last year. Too bad, too. She spelled 'bunch,' when what old Keyser said was 'bench.' It's a good deal too much to have to guess at what's in his mouth, and then spell it."
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed aunt Judith a moment later. "Here comes Pen."
"Such luck she's had!" said Corry. "Nothing harder than 'melon' since she began. Now it's Port's turn. Here he comes."
"Port," said Mrs. Farnham, "what was that word?"
"'Baratry,' and I thought he said 'battery;' and that long-necked Cobbleville boy said 'bartery,' and gave 'swopping jackknives' for an example."
It could not last much longer now.
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Stebbins, "if my Vosh ain't all alone on our side! O Lavawjer!"
"O Susie!" groaned Port, "to think of her spelling 'elopement' without any middle 'e'!"
She had done it by a slip of the tongue, and, when asked for an example, stammered out,—
"Elopement, a runaway," and left Vosh to fight what there was left of Cobbleville. There would have been three against him, if a bright boy had not forgotten how many "l's" there should be in "traveller," and then given himself for an example as he shot away down the aisle.
Vosh knew how to spell "traveller;" and the next word went across the house to be spelled as "porringer," when all the elder wanted was "porridge."
"Two left," said Mrs. Stebbins,—"that there dumpy gal and my Vosh."
"She's one of the smartest girls in all Cobbleville," said Corry.
"She ain't as smart as my Vosh."
Opinions might vary on a point like that; and every time the healthy-looking young lady whom Mrs. Stebbins so unkindly described as "dumpy" spelled a word correctly, her conduct was approved by Cobbleville in a rousing round of applause. All that Vosh's friends could do for him was as nothing to it, but he had his revenge. On the fourth word, after they were left alone, the applause began too soon.
The healthy young lady remembered too well the nature of Susie Hudson's blunder, and she rashly inserted an unnecessary "e" in "fusibility."
"Wrong. Down. Example?"
"Fusibility—example!"—a long, confused hesitation—"butter, sir."
And the hasty multitude of Cobbleville had been loudly cheering the unlucky "e" which the triumphant Vosh the next moment very carefully omitted.
Didn't Benton cheer then!
"Vosh has got the dictionary!" all but shouted his happy mother. "I declare, I'll read it through."
"If she does," whispered Corry to Port, "she'll never stop talking again as long as she lives."
"She'd have all the words she'd need to keep her a-going."
The ceremony of presenting the prize was gracefully turned over to Elder Evans by his reverend friend and the committee. The good man seemed to take a special pleasure in delivering so very large a book to "a young member of his own flock," as he expressed it. It must be confessed that Vosh looked more than a little "sheepish" when he walked forward, and held out his hands for the prize.
The great spelling-match was over, and the crowd of old and young spectators began to disperse.
Before the Cobbleville boys could make up their minds clearly whether it was their duty to snowball Elder Keyser or the Benton-district folk, the latter were mostly on their way home.
"Susie," said Vosh, as he stowed the dictionary carefully away in the red cutter, "I wish you'd won it."
"I'm real glad I didn't, then. Our side beat, and that's quite enough for me."
There had been several light and fleecy falls of snow since the arrival of the "city cousins" at the farmhouse, but they had been only about enough to keep the sleighing in good order. The weather was bracingly cold; but, for all that, aunt Judith more than once felt called upon to remark,—
"The winters nowadays ain't nothin' at all to what they used to be."
"We'll have more snow yet," said the deacon. "Don't you be afraid."
"Snow, Joshaway! Well, if you've forgotten, I haven't. I've seen this place of ourn jest snowed in for days and days, so't you couldn't git to the village at all till the roads was broke."
Mrs. Stebbins had had a great deal more to say about it, all in the same strain; and the only consolation seemed to be, in the language of Deacon Farnham,—
"It's the best kind of a winter for the lumbermen. The choppers haven't had to lose a day of time, and the haulin's the best you ever heard tell of."
Just snow enough, and no more. That sort of thing was not to be securely counted on, however, as they were all about to learn. The very Saturday after the spelling-match, the morning opened with a sort of haze creeping over the north-eastern sky.
It seemed to drift down from somewhere among the mountains, and by noon the snow began to fall.
"Boys," said the deacon, "it's going to be a big one this time, real old-fashioned sort. We must get out the shovels, and keep the paths open."
It hardly seemed necessary to do any shovelling yet; but the white flakes fell faster and faster, hour after hour, and night came on earlier than usual.
"Now, Port," said Corry, "if you and I know what's good for ourselves, we'll lay in all the wood we'll need for to-morrow and next day. Every thing'll be snowed clean under."
"That's so, but I wouldn't ha' missed seeing it come."
Neither would Susie; and she and Pen watched it from the sitting-room windows, while even aunt Judith came and stood beside them, and declared,—
"There, now, that's something like;" and Mrs. Farnham remarked in a tone of exultation,—
"You never saw any thing like that in the city, Susie."
"Never, aunt Sarah. It's splendid. It's the grandest snow-storm I ever heard of."
There was very little wind as yet, and the fluttering flakes lay still where they fell.
"All the snow that couldn't get down before is coming now," said Pen. "There's ever so much of it. I like snow."
More and more of it; and the men and boys came in from the barns after supper as white as so many polar bears, to stamp and laugh and be brushed till the color of their clothes could be seen.
Then the wind began to rise, and the whole family felt like gathering closely around the fireplace; and the flames poured up the wide chimney as if they were ready to fight that storm.
The boys cracked nuts, and popped corn, and played checkers. The deacon read his newspaper. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith plied their knitting. Susie showed Pen how to crochet a tidy. It was very cosey and comfortable; but all the while they could hear blast after blast, as they came howling around the house, and hurled the snow fiercely against the windows.
"Isn't it grand?" said Port at last. "But we'll have some shovelling to do in the morning."
"Guess we will!"
"And you'll have a good time getting to school."
"School! If this keeps on all night, there won't be any going to meeting to-morrow, let alone school on Monday."
It did keep on all night; and the blinding drifts were whirling before the wind with a gustier sweep than ever, when the farmhouse people peered out at them next morning.
Every shovel they could furnish a pair of hands for had to be at work good and early, and the task before them had a kind of impossible look about it.
The cattle and sheep and horses had all been carefully sheltered. Even the poultry had received special attention from their human protectors. They were all sure to be found safe and warm, but the difficulty now was in finding them at all.
There was a drift nearly ten feet high between the house and the pigpen, and a worse one was piled up over the gate leading into the barnyard.
How those pigs did squeal, while they impatiently waited for the breakfast which was so very long in coming!
"They're nearest, father," said Corry. "Hadn't we better stop that noise, first thing we do?"
"You and Port go for them."
They dug away manfully at that drift, or, rather, at the hole they meant to make through it, while the grown-up shovellers toiled in the direction of the barnyard-gate.
"Corry," said Port, "don't you think this is pretty hard work for Sunday morning?"
"Those pigs don't know any thing about Sunday. The cows don't either. They get hungry, just the same."
"I s'pose it's all right."
"Right! You trust father for that. He says the Lord made Sunday, and the Lord sent the snow, and we needn't worry about it. The Lord wants all his cattle fed regularly."
"Did your father say that?"
"Yes, I heard him saying it to aunt Judith."
"It's all right, then. But don't you think it's pretty hard work for any kind of day?"
"Yes, but it's fun. Hear those pigs! They know we're coming."
It sounded a great deal as if the hungry quadrupeds in the pen were explaining their condition to all the outside world, or trying to, and cared very little how much work it might cost to bring them their breakfast.
Their neighbors in the stables and barn made less fuss about the matter, but they had even longer to wait. Before the great drift at the gate could be conquered, it was breakfast-time for human beings, and there was never a morning when coffee and hot cakes seemed more perfectly appropriate.
While the human workers were busy at the breakfast-table, the snow and wind did not take any resting spell, but kept right on, doing their best to restore the damaged drifts.
"Susie," said Port, "doesn't this make you think of Lapland?"
"Or Greenland, or Siberia?"
"Tell you what," said Corry, "I don't believe the Russians get any thing much better than this."
"If they do," said aunt Judith, "I don't want to live there. There won't be any going to meeting to-day."
"Meeting!" exclaimed the deacon. "There'll be a dozen big drifts between this and the village. All hands'll have to turn out to breaking roads, soon as the storm lets up."
No end of it was reached that day; but the barn was reached, and all the quadrupeds and bipeds were found, safe and hungry, and were carefully attended to.
"We sha'n't get into the woods again right away," said Corry; and he was right about that, but there was a thoughtful look on Susie's face as she remarked,—
"I wonder how Mrs. Stebbins is getting along. There's nobody there but Vosh."
"He's a worker," said the deacon. "He's very strong for his age,—likeliest youngster in the whole valley. We can't get over there to-day, but we will to-morrow."
That had indeed been a busy time for Vosh, hard and late as he had worked the night before; and his mother came out to help him.
"It ain't no time to talk, Lavawjer," she said to him; "but I do wish I knowed how the deacon's folks was a-gettin' on. They must be pretty nigh snowed under."
"Guess they're all right, but it'll give Susie and Port some notion of what snow can do in the country."
Away on into the night the great northern gusts worked steadily; but towards morning it seemed as if the storm decided that it had done enough, and it began to subside. Now and then it again took hold as if it had still a drift or so to finish; but by sunrise every thing was still and calm and wonderfully white.
"This'll be a working-day, I guess," said the deacon; "but all the paths we make'll stay made."
There was some comfort in that; for all they had made on Sunday had to be shovelled out again, and the pigs were as noisy as ever.
The deacon insisted on digging out every gate so it would swing wide open; and all the paths were made wide and clear, walled high on either side with tremendous banks of snow. It was after dinner, and the workers were getting a little weary of it, before they could open the front-gate.
Susie was watching them from the windows, and Pen was in the front-yard, vigorously punching a snow-bank with a small shovel, when aunt Judith suddenly exclaimed right over Susie's shoulder,—
"Sakes alive! There's somethin' a-stirrin' in the road. What can it be?—Sarah, call to Joshaway! There's a human critter out there in the snow."
Susie almost held her breath, for there was surely a commotion in the great drift a few rods beyond the gate. The boys saw it too, and they and the deacon and the hired man began to shout, as if shouting would help a fellow in a deep snow.
"Father," said Corry, "shall we go and see who it is?"
"Not as long as he can thrash around like that. He'll get through."
"He's gone away under," said Port. "There he comes—no, he's under again. It's awful deep."
"He'll be smothered."
Susie was watching that commotion in the snow as she had never watched any thing before, and just then a fleecy head came out on this side of the high drift.
"Aunt Judith!—Aunt Sarah!—It's Vosh Stebbins!"
"They're all snowed under, and he's come through to tell us. Oh, dear!"
"Hurrah, boys!"
There was nothing at all doleful in the ringing shout Vosh sent towards the house the moment he got the snow out of his mouth.
"Have you got any snow at your house? There's more'n we want up our way. Let ye have loads of it, and not charge a cent."
"Come on, Vosh," said the deacon. "How'd you find the roads?"
"Sleighin' enough to last all summer, if you don't waste it. More like swimming than walking."
"I'd say it was. Come on in and warm yourself."
Both the boys were brushing the snow from him as soon as he got to the gate, and all the women-folk were out on the stoop to welcome him. Aunt Judith talked as fast as his own mother could have done, and insisted on his sitting down before the fireplace while she brought him a cup of coffee, and a glass of currant-wine, and a piece of pie, and then she said she would make him some pepper-tea.
"Now, Miss Farnham," said Vosh, "I ain't hurt a bit."
"And your mother?"
"Never was better; but she was worried about you folks, and I said I'd come over and see.—Susie, did you know it'd been snowing a little out of doors?"
"How did you ever get through?"
"I just burrowed most of the way, like a wood-chuck."
"You can't go back by the same hole," chuckled Corry.
"I could if it was there. Guess I won't stay long, though: mother'll be afraid I'm lost in the drift."
He was right about that; and, after a few minutes of merry talk, they all gathered at the front-gate to see him plunge in again.
"He'll get through," said the deacon. "There's the makin' of a man in Vosh. He goes right straight ahead into any thing."
The last thing he had said before starting was,—
"All Benton Valley'll be out a-breakin' roads to-morrow."
"That's so," said the deacon; but, after Vosh had gone, he added, "and snow-ploughs won't be of any kind of use."
"How'll we work it?" said Corry.
"Teams and sleds. It'll be a tough job, and the roads'll be pretty rough for a while."
"Corry," said Port, "how'll they do it,—cart the snow away?"
"Where'd they cart it to? You just wait and see."
They were all tired enough to go to bed early, but the first rays of daylight next morning saw them all rushing out again. Port felt a little stiff and sore, but he determined to do his part at road-breaking.
The snow lay pretty level in the roads, for the greater part; and you could see the top rails of the fences here and there, enough to go by.
A little after breakfast the wide gate was swung open, and then the deacon's hired man came down the lane, driving the black team at a sharp trot, with the wood-sleigh behind them.
Faster, faster, through the gate, and out into the snow, with a chorus of shouts to urge them on.
The spirited, powerful fellows reared and plunged and snorted; but before long they seemed almost disposed to call it fun, and enjoy it.
"Up the road first!" shouted the deacon. "We'll break that way till we get beyond Stebbins's."
There was work for men and boys, as well as horses; and the snow-shovels were plied rapidly behind the plunging team. Porter Hudson quickly understood that a great deal of road could be opened in such a way as that, if all the farmers turned out to do it. They were likely to; for none of them could afford to be blocked in, and public opinion would have gone pretty sharply against any man who dodged his share of such important work as that.
It was hardest on the horses, willingly as they went at it; and at the end of an hour or so the deacon brought out his second team, a pair of strong brown plough-horses. When they were tired, out came the best yoke of oxen; and it was fun enough to see the great, clumsy creatures, all but buried in a deep drift, slowly but strongly shouldering their way forward, and every now and then trying to turn around and get out of the scrape.
"A skittish yoke wouldn't do," said Corry. "They wouldn't move any way but backwards."
Long before that, the road had been opened "beyond Stebbins's," and Vosh had joined them with his snow-shovel. His paths were all in a condition that spoke well for his industry, and the deacon told him so. Mrs. Stebbins was at the gate, and she remarked,—
"Tell ye what, deacon, if you think my Vosh can't do any thing but spell for dixinaries, you're mistaken. He's a worker, he is."
"That's so."
But there was no need of his saying much more, for there in the road behind him were Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith, and Susie and Pen; and you could have heard every voice among them, till the front-door shut behind the last one.
That was Pen, and her last word had been a shout to Vosh in the road:—
"We've got more snow in our front-yard than you have, anyhow."
They were now pushing their work towards the village, and could already catch glimpses of other "gangs," as Vosh called them, here and there down the road. In some places, where the snow was not so deep, they made "turnouts" wide enough for loaded sleighs to pass each other.
"If we didn't," said Vosh, "one team'd have to lie down and let the other drive over it."
He could not tell Port that he had ever seen that done, but he added, "I've had to burrow through a drift, team and all, when there wasn't any turnout made."
That was very much like what they had been doing all day, and they kept it up through all the next; but, when Tuesday night came, it was pretty clear that "the roads were open." A sleigh came up from Benton with a man in it who had business with the deacon, and who had some remarkable yarns to tell about the depth of the drifts on the other side of the valley.
"Deacon Paulding's house was just drifted clean under, barns and all. He had to make a kind of a tunnel to his stable, before he could fodder his critters."
"You don't say!" exclaimed aunt Judith. "Snowed under! I've known that to happen any number of times when I was a girl. Good big houses too; not little hencoops of things, like that there house of old Deacon Paulding's. He's a small specimen too. He'd need a tunnel to git through most any thin'. I must say, though, this 'ere's a right good old-fashioned snow, to come in these days."
It was new-fashioned enough to Porter and Susie, and the former remarked,—
"Oh, but won't there be some water when all this begins to melt!"
Others were thinking of that very thing, for the sun had been very bright all day. It was brighter still on the day that followed; and towards night a dull, leaden fog arose in the west, for the sun to go down in.
"Father," said Mrs. Farnham, "do you think there's more snow coming?"
"Guess not, Sarah. It looks more like a rain and a thaw."
"There's most always a thaw in February, but it 'pears as if it was a little early in the month."
So it was, and the weather made a sort of failure for once. To be sure, there were several hours next day when the winter seemed to have let go its hold, and while a dull, slow, cold rain came pouring down upon the snow-drifts. They settled under it a little sullenly, and then the wind shifted to the north-east, and it grew cold enough for anybody.
"I've known it to do that very thing when I was a girl," said aunt Judith. "There'll be the awfullest kind of a crust."
"Glad we had all our breaking done before this came," said her brother. "It'd be heavy work to do now."
The hard frost of that night was followed by a crisp and bracing morning, and aunt Judith's prophecy was fulfilled. The crust over the great snow-fall was strong enough to bear the weight of a man almost anywhere.
"Hurrah!" shouted Corry, as he climbed a drift, and walked away towards the open field beyond. "We'll have some fun now."
"What kind of fun?" asked Port.
"What kind? Well, all kinds,—sliding down hill, snow-shoeing in the woods, all sorts of things."
"Hurrah for all that!"
"Boys!" shouted Vosh from the front-gate, "the mill-pond was flooded yesterday, and it's frozen hard now. There's acres and acres of the best skating you ever heard of, glary as a pane of glass."
There was a shout then that brought aunt Judith and Susie to the window, and Porter was saying to himself,—
"Well, I am glad we brought along our skates, after all. There'll be a chance to use 'em."
Vosh Stebbins got home from school very early Friday afternoon, and his chores were attended to in a great hurry.
After that, his mother's mind was stirred to the curiosity point by an unusual amount of hammering out in the barn. He was a good deal of a mechanical genius, or, as she expressed it, "he had a nateral turn for tools;" and he had more than once astonished her by the results of his hammering. When, however, she asked him what he was up to, all she could get from him was,—
"I tell you what, mother, I'm going to show 'em a new wrinkle. Wait till morning. 'Tisn't quite ready yet."
"You'd ort to tell me, Vosh. Mebbe I could give you some idees."
He was very close-mouthed for once, however, and it may be he had some doubts about his own "idees."
The Benton boys and girls had not learned to say "coasting:" they all called it "sliding down hill." But the country they lived in had been planned expressly for it. The hills around the valley were steeper in some places than in others, but the roads generally had to wind more or less in climbing them. There was not enough of travelling on any of them to interfere seriously with the free use of sleds, and you could almost always see whether or not the track was clear. Just now, however, the very depth of the snow was in the way, for the heavy sleighs had cut down into it so as to leave great ridges in the middle. That was enough to spoil the running of any thing narrow. The great storm, therefore, would have been a bad thing in that connection, but for the thaw and freeze, and the splendid, thick, icy crust.
Not more than a mile east of Deacon Farnham's, the land sloped down almost gently for more than a mile, to the very edge of the village; and there were roads from that on, to the borders of the little river and the mill-pond. Of course all that slope was not in one field; but all the low and broken fences were now snowed under, and it was easy to take the top rails from the two or three high ones, so as to leave wide gaps. With very little trouble, therefore, the boys prepared for their fun a clear, slippery descent, almost level in some places, that would have been hard to beat anywhere. The hollows were all drifted full, and there was a good road on one side to go up hill by. All that had been duly explained to Susie and Port by Corry, and their great affliction seemed to be that they only had one sled among them.
"It'll hold you and me, Port, if we stick on hard; besides, we can take turns."
"And I'll slide Susie," said Pen.
Susie had very little to say about it during the evening; but the idea grew upon her all the time, and she went out to look at Corry's sled in the morning, after breakfast. Aunt Judith stood in the doorway, and heard her say,—
"Yes, it must be splendid!"
"Why, Susie Hudson! That sort of rompin', tom-boy business ain't for grown-up young ladies."
"I'm not grown-up, aunt Judith: I'm only sixteen."
"Goin' on seventeen, and you're from the city too; and that there mite of a sled—well, it's good enough for boys."
Just then Corry sang out,—
"Halloo, Vosh! Going to slide down hill in a cutter?"
There he was at the gate, sorrel colt, red blanket, bells, and all.
"Cutter! No; but you wouldn't have the girls walk up hill after every slide, would you?"
"The girls!" exclaimed aunt Judith. "They ain't a-goin'. I won't hear to any sech thing."
"Now, Miss Farnham, you come out here and look at my sled. They've got one like it over in Cobbleville, only mine's bigger. If you'll come along with us"—
"Me come! Sakes alive! But what have you been a-doin'?"
"Why, Vosh," said Corry, "it's your little old pair of bobs, and you've rigged a box on the hind one. What's that in front?"
"That's my rudder."
"Rudder! You can't steer with it: a rudder ought to be behind."
"Ought it, now? Don't you see? The front bob turns on a pin in the middle, that comes up through the centre plank. I've greased it, so it turns easy. See how I've rigged that yoke to the front bob? See the two arms a-standing up? You pull on one of those arms, and you pull around the head of the bob. That steers 'em. The hind bob follows the front one: can't help it, if it tries."
Aunt Judith walked all around it: she even gave one arm of that yoke a hard push to see if it would really turn the "bob" sled it was geared to.
"Sakes alive! It'll do it!"
Susie had hardly waited to say good-morning to Vosh; and there she was now, with her hood on, exclaiming,—
"Pen, Pen! why don't you go and get your things on? We mustn't keep Vosh waiting."
Pen was off like a flash, and Corry remarked to Vosh,—
"That'll be just great, if it'll work."
"Work! It's sure to work. It's as good as the Cobbleville 'ripper.' That's what they call it. All it wants is somebody strong in the arms to steer."
"I'd never trust myself," said aunt Judith with a deep sigh of anxiety.
"Tell you what, Corry," said Port, "we'll make Vosh haul us up hill. Won't have to walk."
"That's the checker. First time I ever had a horse and a man to help me slide down hill."
They discovered afterwards how important a part of the sport that was; but just then they all had to join in begging permission for Susie and Pen to go. Even Mrs. Farnham had her objections, and the deacon himself was studying the matter; when down the road came Mrs. Stebbins, and the case was won for the young people.
"Judith," she asked, "wasn't you and Sarah ever no younger'n you be now? It does seem to me as if some folks forgot they was ever gals and boys, and slid down hill, and had a good time, and wasn't a mite the worse for it. Vosh, he's been a-hammerin' away at that thing till he jest knows it'll work, and so do I.—Susie, you and Pen git right into the cutter, and I'll explain how them bobs'll steer. You see"—
"Get in, Pen," said the deacon. "Get in, Susie.—Don't you try too heavy a load, Vosh."
"Joshaway, they'll break all their precious necks."
"No, they won't. I'll risk it."
"Judith," went on Mrs. Stebbins, "I'll tell ye all about it;" and that was what she was yet doing, after the cutter turned the corner of the road below the house, with the ripper behind it, and Port and Corry on their sled, dragging joyously astern of the new invention.
The whole country was icy, and glittered beautifully white, in the clear, frosty sunshine. When they reached the coasting-ground, it looked absolutely perfect; and a score of sleds, with twice as many boys, were already at work upon it. The sliding-down that slope was something to wonder at; but the climbing back again was another thing altogether. It was easy enough for Vosh, however, to make a bargain with one of his boy-friends to do his extra driving for him, and have the cutter ready for use every time, with, of course, just a little waiting.
"How often they do slip down!" exclaimed Susie, after a long look at the climbers in the road.
"Some of 'em'll be good and lame to-morrow," said Corry. "I don't believe you girls'd ever get up the hill again, once you got down."
It had been thoughtful of Vosh to look out for that; but he had had some experience on that slope in other winters, and knew what he was about.
They were on the very upper level now. Vosh helped the girls out of the cutter, and at once started it off, telling the driver,—
"Go right on into Benton: that's where we're coming."
The "pair of bobs" had been the running-gear of a small wood-sleigh built for one horse to pull around among the woods. It was light but strong, and the box on the rear half of it was well supplied with blankets. When the girls were in it, and the gay red spread from the cutter was thrown in front of them, the ripper put on quite a holiday appearance.
"Susie," said Pen, "it's awful. We're going to go."
Susie made no reply; but she was conscious of a great flutter of excitement, as she nestled back upon her seat, and looked out upon the great glittering expanse of white that spread out below and beyond, until it seemed to break in pieces among the streets and houses of Benton.
There was one moment a little before starting when she almost felt like backing out.
"Port," she said, "hadn't you better come in here with us?"
"Yes, Port," said Vosh, "get in. There's plenty of room. We'll be all the better for more weight."
Port was glad enough to accept, and he knew every other boy in sight was envying him. There had been no end of comments on "Vosh Stebbins's ripper."
It was curious, but hardly any fellow who had a sled of his own had, at the same time, any faith that "them bobs'll steer."
Away went Corry the next instant, on his swift little hand-sled, darting down over the slippery crust like a sort of—well, like a flash of boy.
"Shall we go through the village?" asked Susie, with a half-shuddering idea that when they were once a-going they would never stop.
"See about it," said Vosh. "We'll make the longest trip ever was run down this hill."
"We're going, Susie!" exclaimed Pen. "Hold your breath. We're going."
They were starting, sure enough, and Susie felt that she was turning a little pale; but they moved slowly at first, for the slope was very gentle there.
"Vosh, does it steer?" said Pen.
That was the very thing he was experimenting on; and the other boys did not guess why the new contrivance made so many curves and turns as it did, until he was able to shout,—
"She works! See? I can twist her in any direction."
"I'm so glad!" exclaimed Susie.
"Now, girls!"
The ripper made a sudden dash forward, down a steeper incline, faster, faster. And there was no need to tell the young-lady passengers to hold their breaths: that seemed the most natural thing in all the world to do.
There never was a more slippery crust, and the ripper almost seemed to know it.
Faster, faster, shooting down the steep slopes, and spinning across the level reaches; and all the while there was Vosh Stebbins bracing himself firmly, as he clung to the long arms of his rudder.
It was well he could guide so perfectly, for the gaps in the fences were none too wide, after all; and if he and his cargo should happen to miss one of these, and be dashed against a fence—It was altogether too dreadful to think of, and there was no time to think of it.
The cargo had great confidence in their "engineer and pilot," as Port had called him before starting, and they had more after they shot through the first gap.
The wind whistled by their ears. The country on either side was but a streak of white. Nobody could guess how fast they were going now.
"There's the village!" gasped Port.
"The river!" whispered Pen.
"O Vosh!" began Susie, as they shot into what she saw was a road lined with streaks of houses and fences.
Before she could think of another word, they were out on the ice of the little stream, and a skilful twist of the rudder sent them down it instead of across. In a moment more they were slipping smoothly along over the wind-swept surface of the frozen mill-pond; and the ripper had lost so much of its impetus, that there was no difficulty in bringing it to a standstill.
"There!" said Vosh, as he held out his hand to help Susie alight, "that's the longest slide down hill anybody ever took in Benton Valley. Nobody'll beat that in a hurry."
"I don't think they will," she said; and Pen added inquiringly,—
"We ain't scared a bit, Vosh. We'd just as lief have another."
That was what the sorrel colt was coming down the road for; and they were speedily on their way up, more envied than ever.
"Don't I wish aunt Judith was here now!" exclaimed Pen.
"She'd never ride down hill in this thing," said Vosh. "I'm glad she didn't see us come."
There was a great deal of work before the sorrel colt that morning, and knot after knot of curious spectators came out of the village "to see how Vosh Stebbins had gone to work and beaten that there Cobbleville ripper."
"He's a cute one."
"Regular built genius."
"There ain't such another feller in Cobbleville. He beat 'em all at spellin', too."
Vosh had won fame as well as fun, and all Benton was proud of him. For all that, he was tired enough by dinner-time, and was glad to drive his passengers back to the farmhouse.
"Aunt Judith," said Susie, "it was splendid! You never saw any thing like it! Wonderful!"
There was a great deal more to be told, and it was all true; but it was not easy for aunt Judith and Mrs. Farnham to believe it.
"Do you mean to tell me that that thing didn't stop till you were out in the middle of the mill-pond?" asked aunt Judith; and four young people with one voice told her it was nearer the upper end than the middle.
"Well," said she, "I s'pose it must have been so, but there was never any such sliding down hill before up this way. I'd like to see it done just once; that is, if it didn't just happen, and can't be done again, nohow."
That Saturday afternoon was a quiet one at the farmhouse. It really seemed as if there had been excitement enough for one day. Still, as aunt Judith was in the habit of remarking,—
"Sometimes you can't always tell for sure what's a-coming."
Vosh Stebbins came over after supper, and he met Deacon Farnham at the gate. There was nothing unaccountable in that; but the boys heard him say, just as he was following the deacon in,—
"No, we won't need any snow-shoes. I'll take mine along."
"I'll take mine too, but the crust's strong enough without 'em."
"It'll be weak in spots in the woods: Sile Hathaway says it is."
Those were great words for two boys to hear,—"woods" and "Sile Hathaway."
"Port," said Corry, "something's coming."
"Hark!"
"Yes, deacon, Sile says the deer break right through, every here and there. There's droves of 'em, and the storm's kind o' driven 'em down this way."
"I've known it happen so more'n once."
"Port," whispered Corry, as if it were an awful secret, "I know now: it's a deer-hunt on the crust."
"Oh-h!" was all the answer; and in half a minute more Vosh was on the stoop with them. Then he was in the house. Then the whole affair burst out like a sudden storm.
Deacon Farnham did not say much; but there was a flush on his face, and a light in his eyes, that made him look ten years younger. Mrs. Farnham told him so. But Pen interrupted Vosh halfway in the explanation he was giving Susie, by exclaiming,—
"O mother! may I go?"
"My child"—
"I never saw a live deer killed on the snow. If Susie goes, may I go?—Are you going?"
Susie could hardly help saying,—
"I know I can't go, but I'd like to."
"Port!" exclaimed Corry, "let's get out the guns, and clean 'em. It won't do to have 'em miss fire."
"That's a good idea," said his father. "Vosh and I'll want to set out early Monday morning. You won't have time to clean 'em before you go to school."
"School! Monday!"
"Now, Joshaway," exclaimed aunt Judith, "don't tease the boy that way. He won't miss just one day's schoolin', and the crust ain't going to last forever. If Mrs. Stebbins can spare Vosh"—
"My mother? Why, she'd go herself if she could."
"Well, Corry," said his father, "if you and Port'll agree not to kill too many deer, you may go."
Port was still wrestling with the painful idea of a gun missing fire after it was actually pointed at large game. There was something dreadful and incredible about it; and, when the weapons were brought out, he cleaned away at them almost painfully.
Deacon Farnham attended to his own rifle. Then he took a ladle, and melted some lead at the kitchen fire, and moulded a score or so of bullets.
"Will that be enough?" asked Port.
"With those in my pouch? I'd say they would. If I get a chance to use half a dozen, I'll be satisfied. You boys'd better take plenty of buckshot, though. You'll be sowing the woods with 'em."
Susie did not exactly care to handle those "shooting-irons," as Vosh called them; but there was a strange fascination about them, after all. She could understand why, when they were all laid down on the table, aunt Judith put on her spectacles, and came and peered at them all over, and said,—
"They ain't much like the guns we had when I was a girl. They used to kill heaps o' game, too."
"What is the difference, aunt Judith?" asked Susie.
"Well, 'pears like these ain't much more'n half as big and heavy. Double bar'ls, too, and all our'n was single. We had flint locks, and didn't know what percussion-caps was. 'Pears to me, if I was goin' a-huntin', I'd ruther have one of the old kind."
Pen counted her father's bullets over and over, till she could hardly tell whether he had two dozen or four; and Corry had to stop her nicking them with the scissors.
"That's to show they're counted."
"Yes; but they won't go straight with nicks in 'em. You'll make father miss his deer."
Vosh went home early; but it was all arranged before he left the house, and it was safe to say that nobody he left behind him would go to sleep right away.
It was very hard indeed, all day Sunday, for the youngsters to keep good, and not to say more than once an hour,—
"It's good and cold. The crust'll be all right to-morrow."
The Monday morning breakfast was eaten before daylight, and it was hardly over before they heard Vosh and Mrs. Stebbins at the door.
They came right in, of course; and the first words were from her,—
"Now, Judith, you and Sarah ain't goin', are ye? I'd go in a minute, if I had a gun, and was sure it wouldn't go off.—Susie, are you and Pen goin'? I do hope there'll be deer enough for all four on 'em, and they won't come back and have to say they left 'em in the woods."
There was not much time to talk, so ready was every thing and every body; but it did seem to Port as if Vosh Stebbins's hand-sled, long as it was, was a small provision for bringing home all the deer they were to kill.
"The lunch-basket and the snow-shoes half fill it now."
"It'll do," said Vosh. "You'll see."
"Why don't you put on your snow-shoes?"
"The ice-pegs I've put in all your boot-heels'll be worth a good deal more, if the crust's what it's likely to be."
It was not a great while before they all discovered what good things to prevent slipping were a few iron peg-heads sticking out of the heels of your boots. As for the snow-shoes, nobody ever wants to wear such clumsy affairs unless it is necessary.
Old Ponto had been in a fever ever since the boys began to clean the guns Saturday evening; but Vosh had secured for that day's work the services of a very different kind of dog,—one, moreover, that seemed to know him, and to be disposed to obey his orders, but that paid small attention to the advances of any other person.
"Is Jack a deer-hound?" asked Port.
"Not quite," said Vosh. "He's only a half-breed; but he's run down a good many deer, knows all about it."
He was a tall, strong, long-legged animal, with lop-ears and a sulky face; but there was much more "hunter" in his appearance than in that of old Ponto. His conduct was also more business-like; for it was not until Ponto had slid all the way to the bottom of several deep hollows, that he learned the wisdom of plodding along with the rest, instead of searching the woods for rabbits.
"Rabbits!" The very mention of those little animals made the boys look at each other as if asking,—
"Did you ever hunt any thing as small as a rabbit?"
The snow in the woods was deep, but it was not drifted much; and the crust was hard, except close to the trunks of the trees, and under the heavier pines and hemlocks. Walking was easy, and they pushed right on through the forest.
"How'll we ever find our way back again?" asked Port.
"Follow our own tracks," said Corry. "Besides, father and Vosh'd never dream of getting lost around here. Guess I wouldn't, either."
Port looked back at the trail they had made. He thought he could follow that. Still he would have been more sure of himself in the streets of a city, with names and numbers on all the lamp-posts at the corners.
"Keep your tempers, boys. It's hunter's luck, you know. We may not get a single shot."
The words were hardly out of the deacon's mouth, before Jack sprang suddenly forward, anxiously followed by Ponto.
"He's scented!" exclaimed Vosh. "There isn't much wind; but it's blowing this way, what there is."
"Hark! Hear him?"
That was music. It seemed as if a thrill went over every nerve among them, at the cry of the excited hound, as he fully caught the scent, and "opened on it."
"There'll be a run now, Vosh."
"Not up the mountain."
"No, we won't follow yet. If they turn him, he'll come this way."
"Or down the hollow."
"No lake for him now."
"He can run on this crust."
"Yes, but he can't pick his own course with the dogs behind him."
Comments followed thick and fast, as the eager sportsmen pushed onward. It seemed to the boys a good time to do some running, if they could but know in what direction to go; but Vosh and the deacon were carefully studying what they called "the lay of the land."
Ahead of them, they knew, was a bold, steep mountain, such as no deer would climb. Half a mile to the right was the road to Mink Lake; and to the left and behind them the woods were open, with a fair amount of "running-room."
"If they turn him," said Vosh, "he'll have to pass in sight. You may get a shot, deacon. It'll be a long one, but I'd be ready if I was you."
It turned out that way in less than five minutes; for a fine doe came springing across the snow, well ahead of the dogs, and out of "shot-gun range."
"Try her, deacon! There, she's broken through! Try her!"
The deacon's rifle was already at his shoulder, and, just as the beautiful animal scrambled out upon the crust, the sharp "crack" rang through the forest.
"Struck!" shouted Vosh as the doe gave a great spring; but she dashed right onward, followed by the dogs.
"Now, boys, you run while I load."
Port and Corry hardly needed orders; and the main wonder was, that they did not break their necks in the desperate burst they made after that wounded deer. Even Jack could not do his best running over that icy crust, except when travelling in a straight line. He could not turn quickly without slipping; and the doe must have known it, to judge by the manner in which she dodged among the trees.
"Here she comes, right past us!"
Bang! went one barrel of Vosh Stebbins's gun.
"Missed, I declare! Must be I've got the buck-ague."
Bang! from Corry, and he seemed to have done no better; but just then the deer broke through at the foot of a hemlock, and Porter Hudson had what was almost as sure as a "sitting shot."
He made the best of it by letting drive with right and left. It was a long range, and the shot scattered, of course; but they afterwards found the marks of nine of them in the skin of that doe.
In twenty seconds Jack had her by the throat; and Ponto tried to imitate him, but concluded that he had better lie down and pant a little.
Vosh was on hand now, to take off Jack, and to finish the work with his long, sharp hunting-knife. He knew exactly what to do; and, when Deacon Farnham came up, they hung their game to the lower limb of a tree.
"No wolves around," said Vosh; "but it'll be safe from any kind of varmint."
"What does he mean, Corry?"
"Why, the wolves are pretty well killed off; but there are wildcats, and some other things, I hardly know what. All the bears are treed. We'll stop for our game on our way home."
They were now barely two miles from the farmhouse, and they went fully another before they saw any more game. Off, then, went the dogs; and the boys were taken a little by surprise when the deacon said,—
"Vosh, you and the boys sit right down here.—No, Corry, you and Port walk off to the right there, about thirty or forty rods. I'll strike to the left as far as the edge of the big ravine. If they've really started a deer, he may come along there."
Away he went, and away went the boys. Porter Hudson had hardly been able to speak ever since he fired at the doe. It was true that his uncle had hit it first; but then, he had killed it, and he was thinking what a thing that would be to tell his city friends after he should get home. He did not know a boy among them who had ever fired a gun at a deer. Now he himself was to be that very boy, and it was almost too much. He was beginning to half dream about it, when he heard the warning cry of Jack, coming nearer and nearer, ahead of him.
Almost at the same moment he heard the crack of his uncle's rifle. He saw Corry spring to his feet, and stand still, while Vosh Stebbins darted away to the left, as if he thought he might be needed there.
"What can it be? I don't see a single thing. No—yes—there he goes, straight for Corry! Why doesn't Vosh stop?"
The deer in sight was a fine buck, with antlers which afterward proved him to be three years old; and it was easier for Corry to hit him "on the run" than to hit a white rabbit. He fired both barrels too, and he shouted to Port; but there was no more glory for the city boy this time. Corry had aimed too well, and the buck had been too near; and it was hardly necessary for the dogs to pull down their game.
"Corry, hear that? It's Vosh's gun. What's the matter?"
"There goes his second barrel. Run: your gun's loaded."
It was all in a minute; and Port darted away with a strong impression that something strange had happened.
Corry must have thought so too, for he loaded his gun like lightning.
Something strange had indeed happened.
Deacon Farnham had walked on rapidly towards the deep ravine, after leaving the boys. He had known that forest ever since he was a boy, and had killed more than one deer in that vicinity. He did not go any great distance, keeping his eyes sharply about him, when he suddenly stopped short, and raised his rifle.
It looked as if he were aiming at a clump of sumach-bushes; and Port, or even Corry, would probably have said they saw nothing there. Vosh, perhaps, or any hunter of more experience, would have said,—